Атлант расправил плечи

           Fortherestoftheevening,Reardenremainedbythesideofhiswife.Hesharedherconversations,helaughedwithherfriends,hewassuddenlythedevoted,attentive,admiringhusband.

           Hewascrossingtheroom,carryingatraywithdrinksrequestedbysomeoneinLillian’sgroup—anunbecomingactofinformalitywhichnobodyhadeverseenhimperform—whenDagnyapproachedhim.Shestoppedandlookedupathim,asiftheywerealoneinhisoffice.Shestoodlikeanexecutive,herheadlifted.Helookeddownather.Inthelineofhisglance,fromthefingertipsofheronehandtoherface,herbodywasnakedbutforhismetalbracelet.

           "I’msorry,Hank,"shesaid,"butIhadtodoit."

           Hiseyesremainedexpressionless.Yetshewassuddenlycertainthatsheknewwhathefelt:hewantedtoslapherface.

           "Itwasnotnecessary,"heansweredcoldly,andwalkedon.

           ItwasverylatewhenReardenenteredhiswife’sbedroom.Shewasstillawake.Alampburnedonherbedsidetable.

           Shelayinbed,proppeduponpillowsofpalegreenlinen.Herbed-jacketwaspalegreensatin,wornwiththeuntouchedperfectionofawindowmodel;itslustrousfoldslookedasifthecrinkleoftissuepaperstilllingeredamongthem.Thelight,shadedtoatoneofappleblossoms,fellonatablethatheldabook,aglassoffruitjuice,andtoiletaccessoriesofsilverglitteringlikeinstrumentsinasurgeon’scase.Herarmshadatingeofporcelain.Therewasatouchofpalepinklipstickonhermouth.